5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Julia
My injuries form a strange kind of metronome, marking time through pain and gradual healing. Each day, the steady beat of Rhazgar's punctual visits creates the melody of my recovery.
His punctuality is so consistent I could set my clocks by his arrivals.
“Do all orcs have internal clocks?” I ask on day four as he enters precisely at seven PM.
“Only WarmHearth,” he responds without missing a beat. “HammerFall arrives when the mood strikes, StillWater when the tides shift, and FirePeak mostly when hungry.”
“And when is WarmHearth hungry?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He considers this like it's a formal inquiry requiring an exact answer. “According to integration pamphlets, we are supposed to say, ‘the same as humans.’ The accurate answer is ‘almost constantly.’”
“Integration pamphlets sound like they could use a revision,” I say.
“Indeed. They also suggest we enjoy human portion sizes.”
“Criminal misinformation,” I declare solemnly.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “At your suggestion, I'll be filing formal complaints.”
I laugh, then wince and settle back against the cushions.
“Tissue repair, this time,” he says, setting a steaming bowl on my coffee table.
He places a second container beside it, something I don't recognize, braised and dark, faintly sweet-smelling. He opens it without explanation and positions the spoon inside it, handle angled toward my right hand.
“Hearthgrain with an equivalent for ember-root,” he says, when he sees me looking. “WarmHearth celebration food. My grandmother made it when someone returned from a long journey.” He doesn't explain why he's brought celebration food to a recovery visit. I don't ask.
He's already cut the root pieces small enough that I won't need a knife. He's done this every visit now, broth first, then something else. Something real. He feeds me like it's the most natural thing in the world, and I've started to wait for it.
I’ve progressed to moving around my condo on a crutch, though my ribs protest sudden movements and my wrist throbs when I forget and try to use it. Still, the improvements are remarkable.
As I eat, I notice him studying my vinyl record collection tucked beneath the window, a passion that predates my book obsession.
“You enjoy music?” he asks, running one large finger along the album spines.
“It’s my other great love,” I admit. “Before books, even. My father taught cultural studies, but the piano was his real language.”
His interest seems genuine, so I continue. “He taught me piano when my hands were finally big enough to reach the keys.”
“You play?”
“Used to. Not much room for a piano in this condo.” I gesture around my book-filled space with my good hand. “But I still listen. Music got me through my father’s death, through graduate school, through pretty much every hard time.”
I reach for the remote to my small sound system. “Would you mind some background music? I’ve been afraid to disturb the neighbors, but since you’re here…”
At Rhazgar’s nod, I press play, and the room fills with Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” the piano notes washing over us like moonlight.
Rhazgar goes completely still, his eyes closing briefly. For a moment, I worry I’ve offended him somehow, but then I see it: the almost imperceptible sway of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he follows the melody.
“This is… pleasing,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“It’s one of my favorites,” I tell him. “Debussy captures something so essentially human, yet beyond words. The piece always reminds me of water reflecting moonlight.”
His eyes open, focusing on me with new interest. “We had no pianos on our world. Different instruments, producing different tones. But the purpose was similar, capturing feelings beyond language.”
This glimpse into his world, freely offered, feels like a gift. “What kind of instruments?”
“Skin drums. Wind pipes, carved from hollow bone. Something similar to your stringed instruments, but played with small hammers. My friend Kragen played the drathvik, similar to a guitar.” A faraway look enters his eyes.
“My mother played at celebration gatherings. Her hands were smaller than most in our clan, allowing greater dexterity on the string-stones.”
“Earth has at least one instrument where strings are struck by hammers. It’s the piano.”
As the music shifts to Satie’s “Gymnopedie,” Rhazgar continues talking, describing orc musical traditions with increasing animation. It’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak at one time.
“Music accompanied every significant clan event,” he explains. “Different patterns for celebrations, healings, protection ceremonies, seasonal changes.”
“Like a soundtrack to your lives,” I observe.
His brow furrows slightly. “Soundtrack?”
“In movies, music plays beneath important scenes to enhance emotions.” I hesitate, then add, “Different foods serve similar purposes in human culture. Celebration foods, comfort foods, mourning foods.”
“Yes.” His expression brightens with recognition. “Food and music both speak to a deeper understanding. In WarmHearth tradition, they are often combined. Certain dishes prepared to set rhythms.”
I try to imagine Rhazgar cooking to music, his powerful movements synchronized to ancient beats, and I catch myself smiling at the image.
Our morning conversation establishes a new pattern. Each day, I select different music to accompany his visits. Classical gives way to jazz, then world music, each selection revealing another facet of both our personalities.
The routine becomes unexpectedly easy. I find myself looking forward to the knock on my door long before it comes.
By the seventh day, I catch him almost conducting with one finger during one particularly moving movement by Beethoven, his usual reserve slipping for a moment. When he realizes I’m watching, he quickly returns to his stoic demeanor, but not before I glimpse something I never expected: playfulness.
“My father used to conduct like that,” I say, offering the observation without teasing. “He couldn’t help it when the music moved him.”
Without thinking, I attempt to demonstrate, forgetting my injuries. A sharp pain shoots through my ribs, and I wince visibly.
In an instant, Rhazgar is beside me, his large hand hovering near my shoulder. “You’ve overexerted.”
“Worth it,” I manage through gritted teeth. “For Beethoven.”
His expression shifts to something I can’t quite identify. “You’re very… passionate.”
“Life’s too short not to be,” I reply, thinking of my father. “Music, books, cultural preservation, they’re all ways of holding onto beauty in a chaotic world.”
He goes quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that means something landed. “After the Emergence, my grandmother kept cooking. Some said it was frivolous, that we should ration and wait until we were settled. She said if we stopped making things beautiful, we’d already lost.”
“But you carried your grandmother’s recipes,” I observe. “Preserved beauty and nourishment despite the ultimate chaos.”
His gaze holds mine, something unspoken passing between us. “As you preserve your father’s music.”
The moment stretches, intimate in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Then my phone rings, shattering the connection.
Director Harrison’s name flashes on the screen. With an apologetic glance at Rhazgar, I answer.
“Julia! How’s the recovery?” Harrison’s booming voice fills the room even though he’s not on speaker phone.
“Improving steadily,” I reply, aware of Rhazgar turning his attention to the record collection by the window, studying the album covers with exaggerated focus.
“Listen, glad I caught you. We have a situation,” Harrison’s voice sounds tense.
“The mayor’s office called this morning.
Apparently, our exhibition has caught the attention of the regional cultural affairs committee.
They’re sending a representative to our Cooking Between Cultures exhibition to see how we handle interspecies representation.
The whole grant for next year’s programming might depend on how we handle this orc cuisine component. ”
My stomach drops. “But I haven’t…”
“I know, I know, we still don’t have an orc presenter.
Not ideal with your injuries, but this could be huge for the library’s funding.
If we impress them with authentic cultural representation, we might qualify for the major integration grant.
” He pauses. “Any progress on finding that orc presenter we discussed?”
I glance at Rhazgar, who doesn’t look at me, his attention focused on the records. With his enhanced hearing, he’s undoubtedly picking up both sides of the conversation. The pressure isn’t just on me now, it would be on him too if he agrees.
“I’m working on several promising leads,” I say. “But I’m still mostly bedbound.”
“The committee specifically mentioned wanting to see genuine cultural education, not just performances or displays. They’re looking for a meaningful exchange, Julia. Our entire cultural preservation budget for next year depends on making this work.”
“I’ll… redouble my efforts.”
“Wonderful! We need confirmation within the week. Oh, and can you dial in for the committee meeting tomorrow? Just for updates.”
After promising to attend virtually, I end the call with a sigh. The exhibition is important, my professional reputation rests partly on its success, but the pressure feels intrusive in the sanctuary Rhazgar and I have created with music and healing food.
“Work concerns?” Rhazgar asks, returning with two steaming cups of tea.
“The multicultural food exhibition I mentioned before,” I explain, accepting the tea gratefully. “They want me to continue coordinating from home during recovery.”
“This exhibition means much to you,” he observes, settling into the chair across from mine.
“It’s more than just a work project,” I admit. “It represents everything I believe about cultural preservation, that traditions are living things that need space to breathe and evolve, not just artifacts in display cases.”
I hesitate, gathering courage before continuing.
“The exhibition features cuisine from diverse cultures: the stories food tells about people’s histories, values, and celebrations.
We’ve secured representatives from several communities, but…
” I take a deep breath. “We still need someone to present orc culinary traditions.”
His expression remains impassive, but I notice his posture straighten slightly.
“I understand if you’re not comfortable,” I add quickly. “Many traditions are sacred or private. But having experienced your approach to food preparation this past week, I can’t imagine anyone better qualified to share authentic orc cuisine with the community.”
“You wish me to cook for strangers?” he asks, his tone unreadable.
“It’s not so different from what you already do at the cultural center,” I say. “Just more public. You’d be sharing what you’ve been showing me all week. Why the broth matters, not just what’s in it.”
I stop, my stomach dropping. “Unless that was only ever meant for healing. And I’ve just asked you to hand over something private.”
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze intent. “Your interest extends beyond healing techniques.”
“Of course,” I say, surprised he would question this.
“I’ve been fascinated by cultural preservation long before my accident.
It’s literally my profession.” I hesitate, then add more softly, “But this week has shown me how much depth exists beyond what’s in books.
Your approach to food preparation isn’t just about ingredients: it’s about intention, connection, continuation, and history. ”
“Like your music,” he says unexpectedly. “Notes alone are not music. Intention creates meaning.”
“Exactly,” I agree, pleased by the parallel.
He falls silent, considering. I resist the urge to fill the quiet with more persuasion, recognizing the seriousness with which he approaches such decisions.
“Would any preparation be acceptable,” he finally asks, “or do you seek specific traditional dishes?”
Hope flutters in my chest. “Whatever you feel is appropriate to share. You’d have complete control over the presentation. The entire point is authenticity on your terms.”
He nods once, deliberately. “I will consider it. There are clan protocols to respect, boundaries between public and private knowledge.”
“I completely understand,” I assure him. “That you’re even considering it means a lot to me.”
As Debussy’s “Reverie” fills the room, Rhazgar rises to leave, collecting the empty containers. Our fingers brush as he takes my empty bowl, and for a breathless moment, neither of us moves.
There’s barely six inches between us, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there long enough that my heartbeat thunders in my ears.
I lean forward without meaning to, my breath hitching as my body responds to his closeness like gravity pulling me in.
He’s the one who steps back first, clearing his throat, some internal boundary reasserting itself before I find out what might have happened next.
“Tomorrow, perhaps you could share the music with strings and hammers you mentioned.”
My heart warms at this request, this small interest in my cultural background. “Maybe harpsichord along with piano. Absolutely.”
“You said the instrument resembles our string-stones,” he explains, then hesitates. “Though I imagine the sound is less… aggressive.”
“Aggressive?”
“String-stone performances often ended with bleeding ears among non-clan members,” he says matter-of-factly.
I stare at him, uncertain if he’s serious until I notice the subtle crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
“You’re teasing me,” I realize with delight.
“WarmHearth warriors don’t tease,” he says solemnly, but his eyes tell a different story.
“Of course not. That would be far too undignified,” I play along.
“Precisely. We simply state alternative facts for educational purposes.”
My surprised laugh makes my ribs protest, but it’s worth the pain to get another glimpse of his playful side.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and exits before I can think of a reply.
After he leaves, the music plays on as I sit with my cooling tea. I don’t pick up my book. I’m thinking about his next visit and I’m not pretending otherwise.